


Brew

by ThatGirlOverThere



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Sassy Barsad, Size Kink, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatGirlOverThere/pseuds/ThatGirlOverThere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake hates the "Reformed Citizens" program, which gives criminals a second chance to get on the right path. The thought of being surrounded by ex-convicts, dangerous people, even in places like supermarkets and fast-food restaurants... it makes him uncomfortable. This could change, though, because Bane makes a damn good hibiscus-orange iced chai.</p><p>(Or, the Coffee Shop AU that the fandom needed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Coffee Run

John hates the idea.

The thought of giving Gotham’s lowest, most trite citizens a second chance, a chance to become upstanding citizens in the city that they’d at one point tried (and almost succeeded) to bring down... it was maddening. John has pledged loyalty to Gotham, sworn on a chrome-plated piece of metal that it was his singular and sworn duty to protect the city and its people from the criminals who were now serving as grocery clerks, gas station attendants, and... baristas.

John also hates coffee. He wonders why Gordon sent him here, and realizes only when he swings open the door, and is met by harsh grey eyes on a face draped in burgundy gossamer, that it’s a test. Enough time has passed to heal the most severe wounds, to fade the bruises and rebuild what is feasible, both tangibly and not. Gotham has accepted the criminals as low-class, but normal, workers. John, however, has not.

In the words of Gordon on a dismal and cloudy day almost exactly a year ago, “It is our moral duty to give these wayward criminals a second chance... it’s what... what Bruce Wayne would have wanted. We assure you, however, that the slightest breach of our newly-enforced protocol, our ‘Reformed Citizens’ program, will elicit the swiftest and most heavy-handed discipline.”

John had high doubts that Gordon wrote the speech himself, but clapped along with the citizens of Gotham at the end of it, a sea of people with so much hope, so much faith that Gotham would always prevail, that Gotham was invincible. John does not have the same faith, and this worries Gordon.

Last week, John walked in on Gordon hacking up a lung in his office, and pretended not to notice the blood-stained tissues that the commissioner had hastily shoved beneath the litter of files on his desk. Gordon knows that his days are numbered, and that John is an almost ideal replacement. John’s admirable qualities: his strength, loyalty, and impenetrable moral standing, do not make up for the fact that bridges make John hyperventilate and tense up, and that his moods and mannerisms around normal Gotham residents and “Reformed Citizens” are dramatically different.

It’s 2 o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and it’s starting to drizzle. There’s nobody in the café but John, a man around John’s age feverishly wiping a table with a rag, and the man with grey eyes.

John swallows. He cannot forget those eyes. Granted, he was fortunate to never have actually met the infamously ruthless “Bane”, but he’d heard stories, and seen pictures. This was the man who had no thought at all of the boys from the home, of killing them, nor any for Bruce, who had died so valiantly to save them all.

Gordon had mentioned, fleetingly, that Bruce’s life had been lonely, and he’d be happy to be reunited with his parents in...

John clears his throat. He knows this man is dangerous, has killed men with his bare hands, and decides he will not let this affect him. He is a cop, a sworn protector and guardian of the city, and Bane is just a charity case.

“May I help you, sir?” Bane rumbles, the soft, airy cloth shielding his nose and mouth fluttering as he speaks. His voice is low and deep, and makes the hairs on the back of John’s neck prickle. John ignores this. He pulls the hastily scribbled list out of his pockets, and makes quick work of deciphering the different scripts of each officer’s order.

“One medium americano; two large iced coffees, one hazelnut, one non-fat vanilla; one large French Roast latté with a shot of espresso; and a large double chocolate frosty cooler with a caramel swirl and whipped cream,” John reads, an excuse to avoid Bane’s hard gaze. “Absolutely no coffee in the last one.”

John thinks he sees Bane’s eyebrow raise, but he can’t be sure, because he is most definitely not making eye contact with someone like Bane, at least until he hands him a twenty, and accepts two dollars and seventy-three cents as his change.

Bane’s eyes do not leave his, even as John takes the two bills and puts them back in his wallet, and not even when John drops two quarters, two dimes, and three pennies into the large glass tip jar, the peace of the café momentarily sullied by the tinny, metallic clang.

Bane snaps out of his stupor, almost as though John has snapped his fingers, and turns to start the order. John takes this time to examine Bane’s incredibly large back.

Bane is huge, to say the least. His green apron is almost comically tiny against his broad chest, and his long-sleeved cotton shirt (an absolutely hideous shade of faded tan, John notes) is at least two sizes too small. Bane’s muscles ripple beneath the soft-looking fabric, and John immediately finds his throat very dry.

Bane turns to pump foam into a brown paper cup, and John pretends to study the chalkboard menu. His eyes quickly flit to Bane’s face. Bane’s eyes are harsh and demanding, a hypnotic silver-grey. The bridge of his nose is slender and well-shaped, but the burgundy chiffon of the face covering conceals the man’s nose and lips.

It’s certainly better than that frightful mask.

It suddenly occurs to John that he’s been staring. Bane has already placed the order into a four-holed coffee tray, along with John’s sugary, teenage-girl beverage, patiently perched on the counter. John licks his sandpaper lips.

“Thank you,” John says quietly, to a very unimpressed-looking Bane. He pokes a straw through the mound of whipped cream adorning his chocolate concoction, and takes a small sip. John swears that he sees Bane’s eyes glimmer, and the covering over his lips flutter, just barely.

Only when he’s halfway back to the station does he realize that Bane had been laughing at him.

 

&&&

 

John hates coffee. He hates the bitter taste, the possibility of burning the roof of his mouth, and the thick, stinky film it leaves behind on his tongue. He needs a rush, however, and turns to sugar, instead. He knows it’s not good for him, but he tells himself he’ll work twice as hard at the gym. And maybe order non-fat next time.

Next time. John isn’t planning on going back. He’ll pick something up from another coffee shop on the way to the station, because he’s certainly not going back to any coffee shop that employs criminals.

Reformed citizens, his conscience corrects.

Criminals. They’re still criminals.

 

&&&

 

John goes back.

He doesn’t know how his job has turned to making coffee runs for the whole precinct, but John can grudgingly admit that Gotham’s crime rate has fallen drastically since the program started.

There are more people in the café this time, but Bane is still working the counter. John stands in line, watching Bane work. He has a methodical, extremely practiced routine: his movements are crisp and efficient, each motion expending just the amount of energy necessary, no more, no less.

He works with a startling efficiency, foaming milk while the caramel warms, skimming excess cream while the beans roast. John imagines that Bane’s large, hulking body and enormous hands would be a hindrance around such delicate caffeinated creations, but Bane seems like a natural.

John finds himself at the front of the line, and swears that Bane’s eyebrows raise just slightly, and his eyes flash.

“What can I get for you, sir?” Bane’s facial covering, now a forest green, flutters delicately. John almost laughs, “delicate” is the last adjective he’d have associated Bane with.

“Same as before: one medium americano; two large iced coffees, one hazelnut, one non-fat vanilla; one large French Roast latté with a shot of espresso; and... what do you recommend?”

John regrets asking almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, because criminals aren’t fit to make conversation with, because, after all, they’re criminals. Bane’s eyebrow quirks.

“I don’t like coffee, and hot things burn my tongue,” John splutters, in an attempt to save the situation. “I just want to try something new, don't look so condescending!”

Bane huffs and stabs the cash register buttons with his stubby, thick fingers. John hands him a twenty, and accepts a five dollar bill and fifty-two cents as change. Two quarters and two pennies clunk into the tip jar.

John sits down at one of the tiny circular tables, whipping out a file from inside his jacket and getting right to work. His pen hovers over the case file for exactly six minutes, and he does not actually accomplish any work. The service bell dings and Bane calls out, “Order twenty-nine!”

Funny, John thinks, Bane didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood today.

A single coffee tray lies on the pick-up station, filled with only four drinks. John turns to Bane.

“Sorry, but....”

Bane thrusts forth a plastic cup full of bright pink liquid. There are fucking orange slices in it, too. John sighs, and takes it.

“Thank you, Bane,” he says, and grabs a handful of straws. As he pushes the front door open, a hand catches his wrist. It’s the man John saw the first time he was here, the same rag still hanging out of his apron pocket. His eyes are terrifyingly blue.

“Bane never makes special orders, you know,” he whispers, azure orbs glinting.

John snatches his hand away and glares. He leaves in a huff, deciding not to dwell on it. He takes a sip of his embarrassingly pink drink.

It’s delicious.


	2. Hibiscus-Orange Iced Chai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance if chapters are a bit short. I find that I write best when it is in short bursts, and am therefore able to write more descriptively and edit more efficiently. It's also great for readers, as updates will come more frequently! But enough of that, on with the story!

John goes back.

He doesn’t plan to, honestly. But he’s going to the gym, anyway, so what harm is another... whatever that drink was? He’s certainly not going back for the atmosphere, just for another few sips of heaven.

He makes it just in the nick of time, the blue-eyed man from earlier scrubbing the glass windows outside, perched on his tiptoes. There’s something mechanical, but therapeutic, in his movements: he swirls to the left, scrubs up and down four times, and then swirls to the right. John watches this for a few minutes, before deciding that the man hasn’t noticed him.

“We’re still open, you know,” the man says abruptly, turning on his heel. He’s handsome in an unkempt, rugged way, John thinks, the type of guy that would have been his type at the police academy. His hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed in a few weeks, and his beard is growing straggly. His eyes are his saving grace, a deep blue so beautiful that it can’t be real.

“I’m Barsad, by the way,” he says, holding out his un-soaped hand.

“Detective John Blake,” John says evenly, giving Barsad’s hand a firm shake. If Barsad tenses up the tiniest bit, John doesn’t notice.

“Good to meet you,” he says, and resumes his window-washing. As he swirls the soapy suds to the left, John can make out Bane at the front counter, meticulously organizing pre-packaged bags of coffee beans and stacks of lime-green gift cards.

“Are you going to stare at him all night, or are you going to go in and order something? Honestly, you look deaf-and-dumb, standing there staring. Is that a bit of drool I see?” Barsad quips, turning his head, eyebrows raised haughtily. John has an overwhelming urge to stick out his tongue, but settles for shooting Barsad a comically mean look that would barely faze a toddler.

“Go on in, then, we close in five minutes.”

John nudges the door open with his foot, taking care not to smudge the immaculate and gleaming glass. Bane doesn’t even look up. His hulking hands are wiping the counter in the same efficiently beautiful way that Barsad was outside, and his facial covering flutters as he scrubs a particularly crusty-looking coffee stain.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed, sir,” Bane says, still scrubbing and staring intently at the spot, “We re-open at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”

John stares fiercely at Bane’s downcast gaze, and silently demands that Bane make eye contact with him. Bane continues to scrub at the pesky brown spill.

“Barsad told me you’re closing in five minutes.”

This makes Bane look up. John cannot tell whether or not Bane smiles when he sees John. Most likely not.

“What do you think, _sir_ , makes you so special that mine and Barsad’s schedules might be changed solely to accommodate your needs?” Bane replies, polite and acidic, his eyes glinting. John can tell that he’s smirking, face covering be damned. “Barsad ought to check his watch, because it’s quarter past, and our shop closed at eight.”

John can’t tell if it’s the face covering or the furious ringing in his ears, but he thinks Bane has a bit of an accent. Not heavy or overpowering, but subtly ethnic in a way that makes John think of books on tape or documentary narrators.

“My name’s John. Robin, actually. I don’t, like, really tell people that but I just don’t want you to think I’m an insensitive dick or something and I appreciate you making a whole new drink to, like, accommodate my preferences and Barsad told me you don’t usually do that so I just wanted to say thank you and I know it’s really selfish of me but I just wanted another one of those... I don’t know. At least tell me what it was,” John rambles, his words coming out in inelegant clumps, “And if it makes you feel better, I’ll accommodate my own needs and make it myself, at home. It was... really good. It was delicious.”

John doesn’t know why, but at this moment, he feels very vulnerable and exposed.

Bane laughs. It’s a rich, undulating sound, one that floods the café with its dulcet, round tone. It immediately makes John’s heart race.

John tells himself it's because he's angry. _What an asshole,_ he tells himself, _laughing at me like that. He can't do that, he's a fucking criminal._ _  
_

“Nonsense, I will make you another. You are quite persistent, if a bit overzealous, but I find that it suits you, little bird.”

John _absolutely_ does not blush.

Bane ducks under the counter and pulls out a heavy porcelain pot, cube-shaped and engraved with elegant swirls and rich gold paint. He pries the lid off, and immediately the air that Bane and John share is scented with a rich, floral aroma, heady and exotic. Bane lovingly places a scant tablespoon of the dried red contents into a cup of hot water, mixing gently. The water immediately turns a pale pink.

“What is that? It smells incredible,” John asks softly, breaking the silence.

“Hibiscus flowers,” Bane says softly, the water slowly turning blood red. “When I was... very, very young, my grandmother, my father’s mother, would drink a cup every morning and every night. The scent reminds me of her.” He runs his hand over the pot and gently places it back under the counter.

John watches in silence as Bane cuts an orange in half, squeezing half into a glass of ice and cutting the other into thin slices. He lovingly pours the tea over the juice, which turns it a familiar shade of garish fuchsia. He drops the slices into the cup and snaps the lid on.

John looks up at Bane, who holds out the cup expectantly. Neither one moves for a time, their eyes searching. John’s are a wet, molten brown, dark as espresso, Bane’s a deep, longing silver.

For a while, they stand there, breathing shallow, simply looking. For what, it can't be said.

John doesn’t know what Bane’s thinking, doesn’t know what his opinion of John is, but he wonders why he cares. Bane is a criminal— he’s done terrible things in the past, and just because he’s picked up a low-paying job and is attempting to appear normal, it in no way diminishes the acts that he’s committed, the lives he’s ruined, and the people he’s hurt.

John hasn’t felt this conflicted in a while.

“How much do I owe you?” John asks. He knows that his voice cracks slightly, but Bane doesn’t seem to notice.

“On the house,” Bane says, waving John off. “Now go, we really are past closing time. The program has strict rules and regulations, you know, it's given Barsad and I a curfew and bedtime and all that.” He eyes shine, warm and teasing.

John decides not to protest, so he thanks him and leaves. Barsad throws him a hearty wink as he pushes through the doors, and for the most fleeting second, John wonders if he's wrong.

 

&&&

 

“Stand to be a bit less obvious, Bane,” Barsad says, collapsing into a wooden chair.

Bane’s eyebrows furrow.

“I do not understand what you are implying,” he thrums, voice low and rumbling.

“He’s a detective, you know,” Barsad replies, twirling a paper-wrapped straw between his fingers. “It’s common knowledge that Gordon’s time is coming to an end. And from what I’ve heard, your ‘little bird’ is the most likely replacement.”

“I have no intentions with Ro-John,” Bane says stiffly, “He is merely a friend, if that. Besides, he does not see you and I as equals; in his mind, we are no better than the criminals we once were.”

“You know that opinions can be changed, Bane. And if John is to become commissioner, his opinions will have to change. But I warn you, do not call attention to the situation where it is not necessary. We're getting by as it is, and we're part of the luckier few. Don't do anything that could change that, I beg you.”

“As I said before, Barsad, John is merely a friend. Opinions do not change overnight, nor for some time. Come, now, let’s go home. You’ve had far too much caffeine for one day.”

 

&&&

 

It’s been a year since the Batman, Bruce Wayne, died. It’s been one year since every criminal in Gotham was found, lined up in Gotham Square, and explained to their new roles in society, and one year since half of them were found hanging from cords in dilapidated apartments, or floating face-down in the icy Gotham City Channel, having refused to change their ways.

The support from Gotham was almost surprising, life as the people knew it seemed to return, minus the ex-cons and savage drug dealers now flipping burgers and chasing grocery carts around concrete supermarket parking lots.

John wonders whose idea it was to put Bane, _Bane,_ at the forefront of a coffee shop in Gotham Village. Surely it made more sense to put him in the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant, where nobody could actually see him?

He suddenly remembers that his drink is untouched in his hand, the condensation dripping from his fingers and running down his wrist in cool rivulets.

John takes a sip, and imagines Bane’s grandmother as an old, good-natured woman, broad of shoulder and dressed in warm, rich jewel tones, sipping from a cup of hibiscus tea, and wonders what sort of impression she could have left on a young, wide-eyed Bane.

 

 

&&&

 

  
_Your father’s acts do not define you, habibi._

Bane rolls over and dreams of tea-scented cotton and wicker rocking-chairs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely overwhelmed by the amazing feedback that you've all given me! It's so inspiring, and I thank each and every one of you for enjoying my humble fic.
> 
> A note:  
> While criticism and feedback is welcomed, it will be deleted if it is simply rude, and has no constructive relevancy. If the characters are too OOC for your preferences, please find another fic to read. I highly recommend any of Whisky/whiskyrunner's work, and princess-joseph.tumblr.com has some awesome fic rec lists.
> 
> Thank you again, dear readers, for your overwhelming support and feedback. It makes me extremely glad to know that my work is appreciated.
> 
> Much love,  
> ThatGirlOverThere


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